Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set

by Hunter, Adriana

  He’d done this kind of thing before. I knew that. The handcuff bracelets were lined with soft leather to prevent chafing and pressure sores – this was serious kit. None of those flimsy cuffs you get from a High Street adult store for Will. The leather was worn thin in places, and scuffed pale; these cuffs were clearly well used.

  And of course there had been Sally Fielding, may she rest in peace.

  §

  They called it the Stockholm Syndrome. When a kidnap victim becomes so attached to her captors that she adopts their mindset and becomes one of them.

  I was no kidnap victim.

  I was here by choice. I’d called him. I’d come here of my own free will. I’d let him sweep me off my feet, and carry me to the bedroom. I could have said ‘no’ when he’d said to me, “You like it a bit rough? You do, don’t you. You know what you like, what you want. Don’t pretend that you don’t. You like the thrill as much as I do.”

  I didn’t have to nod when he produced those handcuffs, looked at me with those dark, predator eyes, and said, “You like danger?”

  I am a successful professional woman. I am strong. I am not the brainwashed victim of some syndrome or other.

  I was here by choice.

  Here, with my body aching, and my shoulder sockets on fire with pain from being cuffed all night.

  Here, in a semi-dream-like state where nothing existed for me beyond this room, this man... where the pain I felt was transformed into something else, an intensity of sensation, a deeply sexual thing, a different kind of ache, a need.

  I was here by choice.

  §

  “Do you need to stop? Do you need a break? Just say the word, and I’ll unlock you.”

  This was attentive Will, sensitive Will, a side of him that rarely broke through his many protective layers.

  “Make love to me,” I said, meeting that dark look. “Now. I’m not done with you yet.”

  32.

  When you’re tied up, or cuffed, to a bed, you’re the one being controlled. Or so I had always thought. But being the one who submits can actually give you more power than your lover who holds the keys. The looks, the little signals of the body, the words you say... At that moment, it was as if Will was the one in restraints, and I the master. And I wasn’t finished with him.

  He didn’t hesitate, his hard lips kissing the inside of my outstretched arm, so tender, so delicate in contrast to the scrape of his morning stubble.

  I craned my head so that I could take in the sight of his body as he uncurled from his sleeping position. His muscles looked as if they had been sculpted. My eyes moved down from those strong arms, across his chest, down his rippling belly to where his manhood was steadily growing hard. I watched as it straightened and expanded, filling out like some kind of desert flower emerging from the ground after a deluge... as it pulled away from his thigh with a sudden twitch as if seeking me out; as the foreskin peeled slowly away from its shining, purple head, wet already with his juices.

  He caught my eye, then, and followed the direction of my gaze. Slowly, he moved a hand so that he could hold it flat against himself, pressing the shaft against his belly and rolling it slowly from side to side. As I watched, his thumb slid across that wet, purple bulb, over and over, as if he was polishing it.

  I pulled at my cuffs, shaking the bed-frame, demanding his attention.

  He moved so that he was kneeling between my spread legs, that hand still rolling his hard cock against his belly, that thumb still polishing.

  I arched my back, straining my aching legs to lift my body up, offering myself to him, presenting myself.

  He leaned forward and that hand shifted so that it was wrapped around his shaft, rubbing it in long, slow strokes.

  So close!

  That swollen glans was almost touching me...

  I couldn’t hold myself like that for long, and I slumped back down.

  He paused, fixing me with those dark eyes. Then he leaned forward, supporting himself on one hand.

  Finally – finally! – I felt that hardness against me, the head of his manhood nuzzling into my labia, parting those soft lips, gliding across their wet inner surfaces as he continued that languorous stroking.

  I pushed up against him again, wanting to take him deep, wanting that glorious filled-up sensation, but he gave a slight shake of the head, his eyes still fixed on mine.

  He pulled himself away, shifted position again and then – oh my God! – that heavy member slapped down against me, striking my mound, and the hood of flesh that shielded my clitoris.

  I cried out at that first blow. At the sudden stab of pleasure that raced through my body.

  Again, he raised his cock and then, with a flick of the wrist, slapped it down against me. This time the head hit my clit and the shaft slapped down against my labia.

  Another time. Harder, and now it was impossible to draw a line between the aches in my body and the throbbing ache caused by those blows, the ache that was both pleasure and pain.

  A slight lift of one eyebrow from him. I nodded in response, and then he slapped against me again.

  Slowly, steadily, relentlessly.

  It was like an incredibly sexy form of Chinese water torture, that thud, thud, thud of his rock hard penis against me.

  I shifted, wanting to be able to squeeze my legs together and keep that pleasure going, wanting to pull him down to me, into me.

  Thud. And as he pulled away he swept the head of his manhood down, briefly teasing my entrance before pulling away.

  Thud. Eyes locked on mine.

  Thud. My body alive to every sensation, my body taken over by that relentless beat, by the waves of pleasure that swept across me each time he struck me.

  Another blow and suddenly I was right at the edge, just waiting to be pushed...

  Another, and my whole body heaved against its restraints. An explosion in my clit, my pussy, my belly, pulsing out in every direction through my body in great, crashing waves, as that hard cock kept slapping against me, over and over again.

  Finally, my body slumped, spent.

  With one final slap against my clit, he dragged his cock down, between my lips, pressed it against my opening, that hand still working his shaft.

  Sliding into me, slowly. God I was so wet!

  With his eyes still locked on mine, he pushed himself deep until he could go no further. The coarse, wiry hair at his crotch ground against my mound, his pubic bone hard against my clit, his balls against my ass.

  I felt it building again, taking me by surprise, as he held himself there, deep inside me, not moving, and then, as my pussy tightened around him, there was a deep pulse inside me, a blossoming, a hot explosion of juices as he climaxed, throwing his head back with a deep, caveman grunt. His body was hard, tight, as he held himself inside me, pulsing and throbbing, as we both came together.

  §

  Some time later.

  “Okay. You can let me go now.”

  Every muscle and joint in my body was alive with pain. I don’t know how long I’d been locked up, how many times we had fucked and made love. It was all a blur.

  “You hear? I said you can let me go.”

  §

  Breakfast at a table overlooking the Thames. He must have paid a fortune for a penthouse apartment with views like this.

  Orange juice, coffee... strong, black coffee. Toast and a perfectly poached egg.

  I wore one of his t-shirts and he was in a long, white robe. We made small talk while he poured the coffee. It was all incredibly civilized, given that I’d spent the night and most of the morning locked to his bed while he made love to me and fucked me, went down on me, jerked off over me, face-fucked me and more. And to think that we’d still only had one proper date.

  “So what’s your favorite color?”

  He looked surprised, then shrugged, the front of his robe hanging loose. “Turquoise.” He pronounced it the French way: turkwahz.

  “Your favorite Beatle?”

&nb
sp; “Ringo.” The glue that held the other three together.

  “The PIN for your credit card?”

  “2468. For all of them.” No hesitation. But that didn’t mean it was true, not with Will.

  “Your favorite music?”

  “Robert Johnson. All 41 scratchy recordings that we have left of him.”

  “Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kremes?”

  His face was blank. “You know,” I said. “Or don’t they have donuts in your world?”

  Deadpan, he said, “Of course we do. I have a pâtissier who makes the best in London.” Then, in that seamless way of his, he switched topic, and mood: “I was wondering if you’d accompany me on Friday?”

  Friday... What was Friday? And then it clicked. The funeral of Sally Fielding.

  “I...” I didn’t know what to say.

  “I know it’s a bit odd, asking you to come with me to the funeral of a girl I once locked up for a fortnight, a girl who keeps – kept – popping up with demands for money and none too subtle threats of blackmail. But how about it?”

  Which Will was this? Those dark eyes were watchful, calculating; his tone was flippant, almost jokey; his manner was nervous, as if he was risking something, exposing something vulnerable of himself to me.

  I reached out and took his hand across the table.

  “When you put it like that, how’s a girl to refuse?”

  33.

  Will’s driver, Maninder, was waiting in the elevator to accompany me down to the car, standing there impassively with his arms folded across his broad chest as if he had been waiting like that since yesterday. Perhaps he had.

  Up until now I hadn’t checked my phone, had barely even given the outside world a thought. Now, as we traveled down in silence, I saw that I had three voice-mails and a whole bunch of emails from Ellie, my assistant at Ellison and Coles.

  I called. “Hey, Ellie,” I said. “It’s me. Listen, I–”

  “Migraine again?” she asked, her voice just loaded with innocence. “Like that other time? They can be so bad, can’t they? My cousin Amber gets them sometimes. Often she can barely walk after one.”

  “I...”

  “So was it good? Was it who I think it was? Don’t worry, I’ve been through your schedule and rearranged to clear today. You are coming back I assume? He hasn’t got you tied to a bed in some exotic foreign castle, has he?”

  I coughed, suddenly aware of Maninder’s eyes on me. What must he think? He must be used to how Will lived his life. Was it racist of me to wonder if this indulgent western lifestyle might be alien to his culture? He was probably as English as me. More so than Will, given his descent from immigrant Dutch traders.

  “I’ll be for the rest of the afternoon,” I told Ellie. “But I’ll be out again Friday for a funeral. I don’t know how long for.” Or when, or where... “Might be all day.”

  “’kay. Ciao.”

  We emerged from the escalator into the basement car park, and I followed Maninder’s hulking form to the car, a low, sleek black Jag.

  I sat in the back and we were silent for a while, as Maninder navigated his way across London by a succession of back-streets. Then, as we paused at a junction onto a busy road, Maninder half-turned in his seat and looked back at me. “This family is not a family to be fooled with,” he said.

  I couldn’t work out if that was a threat, or a warning, or merely an observation. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not fooling.”

  “Good,” he answered, and was silent for a time, as he threaded his way out into the slow-moving traffic. Then he went on: “They treat me like a son. I come from a poor background, but they saw beyond that. They are good people. You should know that.”

  Now I realized what this was. It was like meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time. I remembered senior prom, when Pop had insisted on meeting Randall Stephens before agreeing to let me go. He’d used almost the same words: Look after her, Mr Stephens. Protect her and respect her. She’s a good person. You should know that.

  “Thank you,” I said now. “I do know that.”

  §

  What to wear to an upper class English funeral? It felt shallow to be so preoccupied with the question, but I wanted to get it right. For me, and for Will. Living in England was a strange mix of the familiar and the strange. Right now I had never felt so foreign and exposed.

  Friday morning, and I was picked up at ten sharp. Maninder sat impassively in the driver’s seat of the Jag, his black turban giving him the appearance of a cut-out silhouette until he moved.

  Will climbed out to greet me with a brief hug and kiss on the cheek. Maybe it was inappropriate, given the circumstances, but boy did he look good in that neatly tailored charcoal suit! It hung off his square frame as if it had been made for him, which of course it probably had.

  After much deliberation, I had settled on a quiet, understated outfit: black hold-ups and pencil skirt, a dark gray silk blouse and a cropped black jacket that was pinched at the waist. My little clutch bag was a cheapie off a Portobello Road market stall, and my Jimmy Choo peep-toe stilettos were by far the most expensive thing in my wardrobe.

  I tried to make conversation, but Will was in a silent mood, his expression fixed as he stared out of the window at the London traffic. After a few minutes, I sat back in the deep luxury of my seat and then, after a moment of hesitation, reached out and put my hand on his hard thigh.

  He glanced down, and for a second I had the irrational thought that he was going to move my hand away, but instead he placed his own over mine, and so we sat in silence, heading to the funeral of his druggy, blackmailing, murdered ex-girlfriend.

  §

  I hadn’t really thought about who would be there, but of course I should have expected my brother Ethan and his new bride (who also happened to be Will’s sister) Eleanor. And there was my ex, Charlie, too. It was like a re-run of Ethan’s wedding: a small rural church (in Kent this time, rather than Norfolk), a gathering of the great and the good, elderly members of the English aristocracy dragged out into daylight and dusted down for the day.

  I climbed out of the car and then paused, suddenly intimidated by it all. This was the first time Will and I had really gone anywhere as a couple, and here was my brother and his new family... Will’s family. Should I head over to join Ethan? Shouldn’t I at least go and have a chat?

  At that moment, he looked up and saw me.

  Always trust a man’s first reaction and Ethan’s was just what I needed right then. He stood there, tall and immaculate in his dark suit, looking bored with the conversation around him, and then he saw me and his face split with that big old grin of his, the Dunkin’ Donuts grin, as we’d always called it.

  Then he looked beyond me, saw Will, and that grin dissolved.

  I felt a need to go to my big brother and try to explain, try to persuade him to put the old bad chemistry he had with Will aside. They had been friends once, after all, as close as brothers.

  There was a guy with Ethan, standing with his back to us. In response to something my brother said, this man twisted and peered in my direction and I saw that it was Charlie. I really should have recognized him from behind, given that he’d had his back to me a little over a year ago when he’d fled the apartment we had shared, finally getting the message that I didn’t want him there but he was welcome to the ashtray that was sailing through the air towards him.

  Now it was one of those moments when everything seemed to slow down, a frozen frame of hesitation. Then Will was beside me, his arm offered for me to take, and we walked together down the gravel path to the church and the gathered crowd of mourners.

  §

  The service was short and surprisingly moving.

  I’d never known Sally Fielding, and Will had never said much about her. I’d only even been able to piece together her story by digging around and asking people awkward questions.

  Sally’s parents were in the front row. Her mother must have been about 50, but looked
much younger, no doubt thanks to the attentions of some of Harley Street’s finest. Her father was a short, round-bellied man with wavy white hair and a surprising twinkle in his eye, given that he was at his daughter’s funeral. When they saw Will they rushed up and hugged him, then turned to me for a more restrained greeting.

  “Willem,” said the mother, “so good of you to attend. I know it must be difficult.”

  “Of course not,” said Will, still holding the woman’s hand in both of his. “Sally was a dear friend, and always an interesting one.”

  “She never did like to be boring,” agreed Sally’s mother. “Or bored, bless her. You were always so kind to her.”

  We sat in the second row, and if I were to extract a single life lesson from this whole experience it would be this: never arrange for your first official encounter with your boyfriend’s parents to be in the second row of the funeral of his murdered, druggy, sex-scandal-magnet girlfriend. At the very best, it makes for tension in the small talk.

  And at worst?

  You’ve just sat down on your cold, hard pew, one of your hold-ups has decided that its name is not necessarily an accurate clue to its function and your thong has ridden up just a little too far for comfort and every time you move you feel as if you’re flossing yourself somewhere that should never be flossed. Sitting in that pew, shielded by your boyfriend, you decide that now’s the moment for a discreet adjustment, and just as you have one hand up your skirt and the other pulling at your waistband you realize that your man has stood, leaving you exposed to a short, sixtyish lady with silver hair, an improbably balanced feathery black hat and a thoroughly disapproving stare. Like a rabbit frozen in the headlights you can’t turn away from that look, and then, when your brain finally remembers the commands to extricate your hands and get you to your feet, all you can think to say to the woman you now realize is your boyfriend’s mother is, “Hi, I’m Trudy. I was just having issues in the hosiery department.”